Eight months of carrying triplets had reduced your daily routine to a slow shuffle between the nest, the couch, and the kitchen.

Your swollen belly was so enormous that you couldn’t see your own feet anymore, every pup seemed determined to practice gymnastics against your ribs at three in the morning, and sleeping longer than twenty minutes without another bathroom trip had become impossible.

Every hybrid in the house had entered full protective-parent mode—hovering, fussing, scenting you whenever you grimaced, and arguing over whose turn it was to help. Usually you would be flanked by a minimum of two of your hybrid mates. Bunch of worry warts you think to yourself.